She was holding a
Made-in-Occupied-Japan tin robot, the paint crazed with age into
craquelaire like a Dutch Master painting in a gallery.
"Turn it upside down," he said.
She looked at him, then turned it over, revealing the insides of the
tin, revealing the gaudily printed tuna-fish label from the original can
that it had been fashioned from.
"Huh," she said and peered down into it. He hit the light switch at the
bottom of the stairs so that she could see better. "Beautiful," she
said.
"Have it," he said surprising himself. He'd have to remove it from The
Inventory. He restrained himself from going upstairs and doing it before
he forgot.
For the first time he could remember, she looked flustered. Her
unbruised cheek went crimson.
"I couldn't," she said.
"It's yours," he said. He went up the stairs and closed the cabinet,
then folded her fingers around the robot and led her by the wrist back
down to the sofa. "Ice pack," he said handing it to her, releasing her
wrist.
She sat stiff-spined in on the sofa, the hump of her wings behind her
keeping her from reclining. She caught him staring.
"It's time to trim them," she said.
"Oh, yes?" he said, mind going back to the gridwork of old scars by her
shoulders.
"When they get too big, I can't sit properly or lie on my back. At least
not while I'm wearing a shirt.
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